


Holy! Holy! Crowley.

by The_Watched_Pot



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Historical References, I Made Myself Cry, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Soppy, Watching Someone Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 12:48:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19928320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Watched_Pot/pseuds/The_Watched_Pot
Summary: Sometimes, while Crowley sleeps, Aziraphale sings his praises...





	Holy! Holy! Crowley.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Screaming_Lord_Byron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Screaming_Lord_Byron/gifts).



Sometimes, while Crowley sleeps, Aziraphale sings his praises.

He remembers, oh -– back in the Fifth Century, was it? -– getting exceedingly drunk with a nice old fellow called Dennis and going on a lengthy rant about angelic bureaucracy. They’d sat out in the groves of Monte Cassino, blotto on wine and sunshine, and Aziraphale had found a stub of charcoal and mapped the whole thing out in wobbly circles on the table, all orbiting the incandescent Centre.

Some years later, when _De Coelesti Hierarchia_ had surfaced, Aziraphale had tracked down a copy for his growing collection of books, panicked at quite how much the old Greek had remembered, and awaited a reprimand from Heaven that never came. They probably hadn’t read it, which was fortunate, because Dennis had made some rather arch comments about revolution, revelations and Divine knowledge that sounded uncomfortably familiar.

He hadn’t got _everything_ right. Humans tended to get overexcited, and Dennis had wandered off into a discussion of the sort of symbolism that inevitably leads to pictures of angels with animal heads, hundreds of eyes, more wings than could possibly be useful, or -– memorably, wheels (1).

The Greek is long-dead, and so is the grove, cut down by St Benedict so that his monastery could take root where the Apollo-worshippers had once danced. But Aziraphale remembers the old man’s entranced expression as he told him of the Seraphim, their encircling fire like a golden river, arrayed around God. Their voices are not so much a sound as a sensation that shakes every atom in its flight. Their phonons are a paean to the Almighty that reflects and filters Her presence.

Like Crowley’s sunglasses, like his slitted pupils, they make the terrible brightness manageable.

_“...Holy, Holy, Holy, God of all Hosts of Heaven, Allélouia...”_

He remembers that Copernicus wore a similar look as Crowley nudged him towards Heliocentrism, and how the man had drawn those same shaky circles, and he recalls the glances he and Crowley had exchanged later, at Galileo’s trial for heresy.

Wheels within wheels. Revolutions and ripples, spreading.

They’ve been left alone for a while, now. Neither of them are under any illusion that this respite will last, and they’ve repeatedly talked the matter up and down into the early hours, or until Crowley’s desire for sleep overtakes him. Then Aziraphale reads, his light shaded so as not to disturb the demon, smiling to himself as, by inches, Crowley sidles closer, an arm stealing out to drape across him, face buried in his tartan pyjama’d side (2).

It’s all very new, and rather wonderful, and Aziraphale wishes –- as far as angels can wish for anything –- that Crowley could sense his love the way he can feel Crowley’s. God has been very quiet; She is not absent, but there’s a stillness where Her presence normally flows. It hurts, and Aziraphale wonders if this is his punishment for interfering in Armageddon. If it is, it’s nothing compared to the pain he imagines comes from Falling, shut out from that presence forever.

Then he thinks about the old Greek, and his fascination with the Celestial Circles, mirrors, shields and prisms, turning Ineffable light into something that could safely touch a human without reducing them to component atoms. He thinks about Copernicus, drawing a circle around the Earth for its satellite, which softens sunlight and delivers it into the dark places.

And he talks. Gently, letting his hand slide through rebellious red hair, he tells Crowley that he’s wanted.

That he’s loved.

He’s forgiven.

He’s beautiful.

He’s worthy.

Sometimes, Crowley only pretends to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> (1) As far as Aziraphale is concerned, both roller-skates and heelies are both a direct result of Crowley reading that part and finding it much funnier than was strictly necessary.
> 
> (2) Yes, tartan pyjamas. What? Fine, on occasions he wears a nightshirt and nightcap. Are you happy, you animals?
> 
> Written following a conversation with Screaming_Lord_Byron about what Aziraphale does while Crowley sleeps the night away. Miracle-ing little plaits into his hair is not out of the question, but not explored here.
> 
> Dennis refers to Pseudo-Denys, or Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, author of a number of works on the nature of the Divine. He notes that Principalities are the same in rank to Archangels, but Archangels belong beneath them on the hierarchical structure, because they are closer to humans. 
> 
> Nobody tell Gabriel.


End file.
